


Always Keep Fighting

by amorluzymelodia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Daddy Dean, Depression, Other, Suicide, Uncle Sam, pill overdose, self harm (kinda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 22:50:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11746812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorluzymelodia/pseuds/amorluzymelodia
Summary: Request: hello, I'm not sure if you're still writing, or if you're even comfortable with writing this, but could you write something based off in "Imagine your Uncle Sammy and your Dad Dean walking on you trying to overdose on pills" from the twsupernaturalimagines blog?Y/N/N: your nick nameA/N: If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts/urges, please know you aren’t alone, and that your life is worth living. You are worth it. Please, seek out help, and I am always here to talk if you need it! Always Keep Fighting.I will also list some resources in the notes below if you need them.Also I listened to this song by while writing. It's inspired by Jared Padalecki's Always Keep Fighting campaign and it's beautifully written and performed. Give it a listen! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-T2lYnRdOBQ





	Always Keep Fighting

Hurting is easy. It’s comfortable. And hell, at least when you’re hurting, you’re feeling _something_ , right? It’s when you stop hurting, when you stop feeling altogether, when you go numb…that’s when it’s hard. That’s when it’s easier to curl up and do nothing, to stop fighting.

You’d been fighting your whole life. After all, when you’re born to two hunters, what else can you do? Your mother died when you were only a year old, a werewolf on a hunt getting in a lucky swing and ripping through her chest, and after that you’d been raised by your father and Uncle Sam. Occasionally Castiel would pop it as well, but his visits were sporadic and short.

You’d enrolled in a small school in Lebanon, Kansas, but you didn’t feel like you fit in there either. All of the other kids knew something was off, especially when your backpack ripped one day and a pocketknife and lore book fell out. You’d been sent to the school psychologist, who insisted that you find a “healthier” outlet, and was incredibly wary when you said your father and uncle were out of town for a while—wendigo hunt up North—and you were staying by yourself for a bit. Luckily she didn’t have any evidence to call Social Services, but nonetheless you were now labeled a pariah around school. So you didn’t have friends, didn’t stick around after school unless it was to do homework in the library.

Though they had trained you from the moment you could walk to fight, they didn’t let you go on hunts, claiming it was too risky. Your dad was incredibly protective of you, and though you knew it was out of love, you couldn’t help but feel stifled. He’d trained you to be a fighter, to take care of yourself, and yet when he told you that you couldn’t hunt with them, all you heard was that you were weak. That you couldn’t do the job. That you were worthless. You were a Winchester…what were you supposed to do if not hunt monsters?

At first it was just feeling down, and you—and Sam and your dad—passed it off as teenage moodiness. But after a while it started to get worse. You stopped going out with them for dinner or movies, claiming you were tired. Your grades began to drop, you started eating less, sleeping more, though you were always exhausted. Nothing seemed to make you happy, but you also had absolutely no desire to do the things that used to make you happy. In fact, you had no desire to do…anything.

That’s when you knew something was seriously wrong. When you just…stopped. When you went numb, and didn’t care about anything, least of all your own wellbeing. You were very aware that this feeling was probably depression, but you shook it off. Hunters had hard lives. It’s just how it was. Uncle Sam and your father had enough to deal with, they didn’t need your whining to accompany it. So you put on a happy face, smiling and playing the part, all the while feeling like you were retreating further into yourself.

It wasn’t that Sam wasn’t a good uncle, or Dean good father. They were amazing, and they raised you wonderfully, especially given their hunting lifestyle. But you knew it was difficult on both of them, having to raise you when they hadn’t planned on doing so. Your dad had cut back hunting significantly, especially when you were little, for which you were grateful, but you knew he itched to get back on the road, hunt monsters, and have a life of his own again. Sam was more of a homebody, but you could tell he still wanted to get out and move again, and with your school schedule, the three of you were tied down here.

There wasn’t a definite moment when you decided to end your life. There wasn’t one specific “this is what I’m going to do” thought, which surprised you. It was just as if the thought had taken hold at some point and wiggled it’s way subtly into your life. And after a while, it wasn’t even scary anymore, to think that the world—Sam, your father, school, everyone—would be much better off if you were just gone.

Sam and Dean had lost people before; they could take it. And while you never wanted to do anything to hurt either of them, there was a part of you that truly believed that their lives would improve without you in them. All you did was weigh them down, from the moment you’d been born. Dean hadn’t wanted a child, hadn’t planned for one, but when your mother got pregnant he did what any good man would do and offered to help out, and when she died he took you in, no questions asked. He had never once insinuated that he resented you, or the decision he made to keep you, but you wondered if deep down, he actually did. Sam would be there to pick him up, and Sam himself would be okay eventually, you were sure of it.

With the amount of injuries Sam and Dean had sustained over the years, they had a fairly large supply of pain medication stashed around the bunker that had been prescribed or stolen from doctor’s offices and Urgent Cares over the years, or even things that Jody or Bobby had lying around that they passed off to them when they really needed it but didn’t want to go to a hospital in fear of tipping some nosy doctor off to the cops. You started taking a few pills here and there from various pill bottles around the bunker, knowing that they wouldn’t notice and stashing them in your room in a tampon box, where you knew your dad and Sam would never look. Finally, when you had what the internet told you was a lethal amount of painkillers, you snuck a bottle of whiskey, and night-time cold medicine in your room as well, and wrote out two letters. One for Uncle Sam and one for your dad. By the end there were tears littering the pages and your hands were shaking, but you had decided what you wanted and you honestly felt that this was the best decision for everyone.

Your dad and Uncle Sam had left not long ago for a hunt—one of the few they actually took nowadays—but it wasn’t supposed to take long. It was just a routine ghost hunt the next state over, so you knew if you were going to do this you had to do it tonight. So you laid out the pills on your bed and opened the bottle of whiskey, ready to toss back a handful before you heard the main door into the bunker slam and footsteps clatter down the stairs. Panicked, you swiped the pills into a pile and hid them under a blanket, and shoved the whiskey under your pillows, just as your dad knocked on your door.

“Y/N/N?” he called, and pushed your door—which was already slightly ajar—open to let himself in. He took one look at you, with red eyes and puffy nose, still shaking like a leaf, and hurried over to your bed, kneeling on the ground next to you. “What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, hurriedly, his eyes swiping over you to check for any injuries, probably assuming someone had hurt you.

You just shook your head, knowing if he stayed too long he would find the pills, or you would lose your nerve.

“Nothing, I’m fine.” You said, but you were far from convincing.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, putting a hand on your cheek. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I’m okay, really.” You lied and decided to change the subject. “Why are you back so early?”

The change in topic didn’t go unnoticed by your dad and his eyes narrowed. “Garth called, said the haunting turned out to be a couple of local kids playing some dumb prank. Said he’d double check but figured it was nothing. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

You were a lot like your dad, in that you didn’t like to talk about your feelings, but he had a way of making you blurt them out. This was a time when that absolutely could not happen though so you avoided eye contact with him and pulled your knees to your chest.

“I just don’t feel well,” you said quietly, looking down at your blankets. “I just need a good nights sleep and I’ll be fine.”

Your dad nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. “Well I’ll make you some tomato-rice soup okay? Here, you lay down—“

“Wait!” you cried, as he pulled your blanket up to cover you with it, exposing the myriad of pills you’d hidden underneath.

There was a long, painful silence in which your dad looked at the pills and then back at you, and you could practically see the thoughts connecting in his brain. His eyes hardened as he looked at you, and he looked around the rest of the room, his gaze landing on your pillows behind you. He reached behind you and pulled out the bottle of whiskey from under your pillow, and you guessed the top of the bottle was exposed from underneath.

“What. The hell….is this?” he said quietly, and you knew he was just barely keeping it together, because of course he already knew.

When you didn’t answer, just sat there with your mouth hanging open like a fish, he called for Sam, who came running when he heard the panic in his brother’s voice.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he entered your room, but then he saw the pills, whiskey and you and your dad sitting on the bed, you sobbing silently and Dean looking like he’d been slapped. “Y/N? W-what’s happening?”

“What the hell does it look like Sam?” Dean growled and you flinched. This wasn’t what you wanted, you didn’t want them to find out, didn’t want them to be home until it was done, and they couldn’t stop you. But now, looking at your father and uncle’s faces…you’d never seen so much pain on anyone before. “My daughter was trying to kill herself.” Though his voice was steady and quiet, that’s how you knew he was incredibly angry. Dean Winchester, when he got truly upset, was like lightning in a bottle, only contained for so long.

You had tears streaming down your face, and your entire body shaking. Sam, ever the voice of reason, immediately got a trashcan and swiped the pills into it before going into the bathroom. A moment later you heard the toilet flush. Dean had gotten up and was pacing around your room, like a lion trapped in a cage. Sam looked from you to his brother and came to sit next to you on the bed, pulling you into his lap like he did when you were little.

“Hey, hey shh, it’s okay.” He repeated, while you sobbed into his shoulder. “You’re okay.”

“No she’s fucking not!” Dean yelled. He never cursed in front of you, at least not so violently and it scared you. “ _Nothing_ about this is okay, Sam!”

“Dean calm down! You aren’t helping anything by yelling!” Sam said, much calmer than his brother. “She’s scared and upset and clearly hurting and you getting angry isn’t going to help!”

Dean, though, just cried out and punched one of the concrete walls, probably breaking his hand, but he didn’t seem to care. That act of violence, however, seemed to shock him out of his rampage and he came to sit next to you and Sam, just staring at you for a long moment.

“Why?” was all he asked, and you’d never heard a more broken sound. Never in your life did you think your father could sound like that.

You were shivering and crying so when you spoke it sounded like a broken record, but you managed to get the words out somehow. “Y-you would b-be b-better off w-without m-m-me.” You stuttered, and you could hardly see through the tears in your eyes. “I c-can’t…can’t d-do it anym-more, Daddy I can’t…” you hiccupped and Sam squeezed you tighter. “Dad I’m…I’m so so s-sorry.”

Your dad instantly wrapped his arms tightly around you, almost pulling you from Sam’s lap and you both held on for dear life. Dean Winchester may not be very good with words, but he knows how to convey feeling when he needs to. And the two of you had always had a deep connection, and could almost read one another’s emotions. He put so much into that hug, all the despair, the grief, the fear, the love that he felt for you.

“You’re my everything.” He whispered, sobbing too. “You are the _best_ thing to _ever_ happen to me, do you understand? My life would be nothing without you.”

“You had to give up hunting because of me…” you argued but he he shook his head.

“I gave up hunting _for_ you.” He said adamantly. “Because I wanted to give you the best life possible, away from all the bloodshed and chaos. I wanted to give you what we didn’t have. I wanted you to be happy.” He paused. “And I failed.”

It was your turn to shake your head. “No, Dad. You didn’t. I’m unhappy because of _me_ , not you. You and Uncle Sam have given me everything, gave up your lives to take care of me. I screwed it all up, I’m a failure. I’m weak, and stupid, and weird and I don’t fit in anywhere. I’m not worthy to be a Winchester.”

Sam put a hand under your chin and turned you to look at him. “Y/N that is a lie. I know your brain is telling you it’s true, but believe me, _you are worthy_. You are the best thing to happen to either of us in a long time, maybe forever. And we would do anything to protect you. Even if that means protecting you from yourself.”

“You two have been through Hell, demons, multiple apocalypses, even the _devil_ and I can’t even handle a few negative thoughts!” you shouted, balling your hands in fists but your dad put both of his hands on your face and looked you in the eyes.

“Listen to me Y/N Mary Winchester. I have seen a lot of crap in this world, and yeah we’ve been through some shit, and while I pray that you _never_ have to go through any of what we did, that does not mean your fights aren’t just as hard. But that doesn’t mean you have to go at it alone, okay? Sam and I will be here every single step of the way. But you have to trust us to help you! Because yes I’ve survived Hell and Purgatory and even my own death! But if there is one thing I will _never_ survive…it is losing you.”

“You’re precious to us, Y/N.” Sam chimed in as you shook with newfound tears. “But you have to do this for you too. Prove to yourself that you are stronger than this, stronger than the lies your brain is feeding you. You’re a survivor Y/N and do you know how I know?”

“H-how?” you asked and Sam grinned at you while Dean held on to you and kissed your hair.

“Because you’re a Winchester.”

The three of you sat together, holding on to one another while you all sobbed. But when you finally calmed down enough to speak again you took a deep breath.

“I’m not okay.” You whispered.

“You don’t have to be, not yet.” Sam told you, running his hand softly up and down your arm, consoling you. “But you need to come to us when you’re not, and we’ll help you get there.

“Don’t bail on us, kiddo.” Your dad said, and though you couldn’t see his face because you were currently pressed up against his chest, seeing as how he wasn’t letting you go anytime soon, you knew he was still crying. We love you so much.”

“I love you both.” You sobbed and they held on tighter.

“You just gotta keep fighting.” Your dad said quietly and you nodded.

“Always keep fighting.” You whispered to yourself, knowing that it would be a hard road ahead, but with your father and Uncle by your side, you knew you could do it.

**Author's Note:**

> To chat confidentially with a crisis counsellor go to www.imalive.org
> 
> National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1–800–273–8255
> 
> To speak anonymously with an active online therapist go to www.7cups.com


End file.
